


Mr. Holmes: The Primary Two Teacher

by shiverfawkes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Ducks, First Dates, First Kiss, M/M, Parent/Teacher meetings, Rosie is precious, Teacher Sherlock Holmes, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 06:47:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16676605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverfawkes/pseuds/shiverfawkes
Summary: Sherlock is Rosie's teacher, John meets him for the first time at a parent/teacher meetingThe next day they're meeting for coffee and posing as a gay couple for an undercover stake-out.





	Mr. Holmes: The Primary Two Teacher

**Author's Note:**

> somebody is probably gonna get at me for saying rosie is six in primary two. Im northern irish, so the schooling system is slightly different here and im too lazy to google it. oops
> 
> Enjoy all the same!

John huffed out a breath of cold air, before walking through the doors of the school. It was the parent-teacher evening at his daughter’s school and he was quite nervous.

He’d seen Rosie’s teacher from afar, a mysterious man, tall, with dark curls and striking green eyes. He looked fairly young, but all the children seemed to adore him instantly. Rosamund especially, always coming home to tell him about the new thing that Mr Holmes had taught them that day.

He wouldn’t lie and say he hadn’t thought about talking to him before. Seeing him every day across the playground as he waited for his class to line up was tempting, it would be so easy for him to walk over and attempt to strike up a conversation. He always stood prim and proper, in suits that looked somewhat expensive, and he liked to watch, observe might be the word, everyone else in the playground.

Parents especially.

There had been several mind-boggling occasions when he’d walked over to a parent with anger in his breath and spoke heatedly about something they’d done to their child. There was one extraordinary event in which the DI of Scotland yard had shown up to arrest a mother for child abuse.

Despite the oddities he seemed to possess, the muttering to himself as he monitored the tarmac, or the weird gestures he did with his hands when he stood, John wanted to go up and thank him. Rosie had never been more excited to go to school than when she was in his class.

But Mr Holmes seemed like the type of man who would nod at him like he was mad and promptly walk away. So, he avoided that scenario by keeping his distance, and offering a curt nod in the rare event when their eyes met.

He found the classroom and knocked on the door, pushing it open a tad to see the man at his desk, one hand in his hair as he marked whatever worksheets were on his desk.

John was the last appointment he had, the clinic wouldn’t let him flex his hours considering it wasn’t a real emergency, so the skies were dark outside, and he was sure Mr Holmes would be going out of his mind.

“Take a seat, I’ll be with you in a moment.” He spoke, his voice was baritone and hypnotising, and John sat down in the wheeled chair opposite him.

After he set the pen down he glanced up at John, eyes tracing down over his body before he clasped his hands in front of himself. “Sherlock Holmes, and you are Dr Watson I presume?”

He was certainly quite posh. John licked his lips before replying.

He wasn’t aware it was commonplace to be on a first-name-basis, but he didn’t question it further. “Yeah, John Watson, Rosamund’s father.”

“I gathered. You do have quite a striking resemblance, the eyes mostly, though the nose is quickly becoming. I will give you a brief overview of Rosamund’s performance this year and then you can ask in more depth if you have any queries or worries, work or otherwise.” Sherlock spoke gently, clicking onto whatever chart or notes he had on his laptop, John couldn’t see.

“Okay, go for it.”

“Whilst she isn’t the most talented she does enjoy the art projects we’ve done so far, I’m sure you’ve seen her work, her motor skills are better than most which is something to be encouraged and worked further at. You’re a doctor, I suppose steady hands run in the family.” He spoke quite quickly as he looked over the words on his screen. “She’s doing noticeably well in maths, completing the mental maths sheets in or considerably under the average time, with few mistakes, and she can pick up new information quickly if she doesn’t already know it, are you tutoring her?” He asked looking up at the doctor.

“God, no, I can’t do maths for toffee.” John laughed. “She has a few books, but she just has a knack for it I guess. Her mum maybe.” He offered, and Sherlock furrowed his brow for a moment.

“And where…” He paused, biting his lip, realising that this may be a sensitive topic, unlike the ones he could poke fun at or use to his advantage. This was sensitive emotionally, and not to be toyed with. “Never mind.” He muttered, turning back to his laptop, nimble fingers typing quicker than John had ever seen anybody type.

“Never mind what?”

“I was going to ask the whereabouts of her mother, but it is clear that she is no longer in the picture.” Sherlock replied, frowning slightly, as if he too seemed to be in pain. John didn’t take him for the emotional type, but he couldn’t help but feel that Sherlocks frown wasn’t one of immediate empathy.

“Deceased, how did you know?” John asked, normally people just took him to be a single dad if they didn’t know about Mary. They usually came to their own assumptions, John only needed to correct them if they voiced them wrongly.

“Your wedding ring.” Sherlock replied pointedly.

“I'm not wearing one.”

“Exactly, yet there is the minor indent of one in your finger.”

“Right.” John nodded, licking his lips, and fiddling with his hands in his lap, not sure what else to do other than listen.

“We generally don’t do much science, she is only in Primary two after all, but she seems to have an interest in that sort of thing, I recommend a table of the elements, or a few simple science books be obtained for home. In addition, if you don’t already, it would be a good idea to get her some Lego or Kinex, those are the things she tends to gravitate toward. Totally optional, still recommended.” Sherlock glanced up at the doctor, expecting a response.

John nodded, watching the man contently as he spoke. “Yes of course, I’ve been wanting to get her some Meccano or something, but I like to wait for her birthday for that sort of thing. It wouldn’t do me much good to spoil her, I can hardly say no to her as is.” He laughed, and the teacher offered him an amused hum and a barely concealed smile.

“Yes of course. The only issue I’m noticing is with her English, she’s perfectly fine verbally, she doesn’t have the usual t-h struggle either.” Sherlock spoke, trailing the end of his pen down some paperwork. “Her written work is where she’s falling short. I am aware that it is still early days yet, but there are some noticeable signs of possible dyslexia.”

He looked genuinely concerned about the matter, that struck John as interesting, because the man in front of him didn’t really seem like the type of person to care too deeply about his student’s personal struggles.

Then again, he was the man that managed to persuade the DI of Scotland Yard to look into a case of child abuse.

“Dyslexia? There isn’t any in my family so-“ He faltered, realising that no matter how he’d wish it otherwise, Rosie was the whole of two halves. “Oh… Possibly Mary, I never really saw her write or read, nothing past her signature at least.”

“However likely, a test would do no harm.”

“Noted.”

“I quite enjoy teaching her, she’s an excellent listener, and her mind is one that challenges. I believe she prefers to be called Rosie? She certainly seems to be one for nicknames at the very least, I think she has one for all of her friends.”

“That’s what we call her at home, Rosie I mean.”

“We?”

“Well me, and whoever comes round, Stamford, Sholto. I'm fairly unattached for the most part, but war’ll do that to you.”

“You were an army doctor? Of course, that makes so much sense.” Sherlocks eyes widened in realisation, and an amazed smile came over his features.

“How come?”

“Tremor in your hand, not to cause offense. As well as the positioning of your tan. I noticed it but couldn’t quite place what it was. Shot in the shoulder was it?”

“Yes, it was. Observant aren’t you?”

“You need to be when you’re supervising twenty-seven six-year-olds.” Sherlock replied, a small smile finding his features as John laughed. “I do side work for the Police, that’s how I get favours from Gavin when he owes me. The Norton case wasn’t even his division. Though, my brother insisted I get a sustainable income, so here I am.”

“I'm glad you are. Rosie adores you.”

“That’s comforting. The children I find are a lot more open minded toward my more unusual habits. I think they find it entertaining that I can tell them what they had for lunch just by looking. The other teachers dislike me, though a suppose it’s because I enjoy pointing out their staffroom affairs, rather than their lunch choices.” He offered a mischievous smirk to John, who leaned forward, smiling in disbelief.

“You _don’t_.”

“I do.” Sherlock grinned. “Wayne Buttery cheats on his wife every Wednesday with the choir instructor in the staffroom after lunch. You can always tell because he’s never able to redo his tie the same way. It’s a wonder she hasn’t noticed yet considering she also works here. It’s remarkable how blind people can be. A few simple deductions on her part and she’d be so much happier.”  

“That’s extraordinary.” John replied with a small laugh of surprise. “You know you’d be frowned upon for telling me that.”

“Funnily enough, I don’t really care, and from what I'm reading, you don’t either.”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Fantastic.”

John grinned at him, before realising where he was, who he was, and who the man in front of him was, and he dropped the smile. He shouldn’t be joking, he should be talking and pursuing the information on his daughter’s education. He shouldn’t be marvelling at the nebula green eyes and sharp cheekbones of his daughter’s teacher, nor should he be thinking about him in anyway way that wasn’t professional. This _was_ supposed to be professional, wasn’t it?

“Oh, don’t worry about the formalities.” Sherlock spoke with a dismissive wave of the hand, as if he’d read the doctors mind. “I like to think this is a more pleasant experience than listening to an old bat droning on about the one mistake your child made throughout the year. As for your attraction toward me, you’ll need to hide it better than that. You stare at me in the playground for a start.”

John rolled his eyes supposing he wasn’t the most discreet. “And you stare back sometimes.”

“Well maybe I’ve also fallen victim to human attraction, Doctor.” Sherlock replied, not quite meeting his gaze, but smirking infuriatingly all the same. “Right, I take it you’ve been given everything you need to hear?” He asked, shutting his laptop and shoving it and a few other things into a messenger bag.

John watched as he stood up and threw on a woollen trench coat, pulling leather gloves over his hands, and shouldering the bag.

He was a considerable height taller than John, a lot more noticeable now they were close up, but John supposed that was just him being below average height in the first place.

“Yes, this has been great, thank you.” He replied, licking his lips again, and walking to the door alongside the other man.

Sherlock stopped for a brief moment, turning to his desk again and scribbling something down on a sticky-note. He pressed it to John’s chest, and the shorter man’s hand instinctively went over his, holding it there. “Here, my personal number, I prefer to text and I do like coffee. Evening.”

John could only watch gobsmacked after the teacher offered him a click of the tongue and a wink, before turning his back and walking out into the night across the playground, out the gates and down the road to heil a taxi.

Had he just hit it off with Rosie’s teacher?

 

 

He managed to work up the courage to text him the next morning. Something simplistic, it would certainly reflect his personality.

**Hi, this is John, text me back when you can. Maybe we can discuss that coffee – JW**

Almost instantly he felt ill, regretting his decision thoroughly, and threw his phone to his bed, not baring to look at it while he went to take a shower. It was around ten in the morning, Rosie wouldn’t be up for another hour. They’d had a movie night in and stayed up long past her usual bed-time, so she’d stir later than normal. He’d planned to take her to the park today, to feed the ducks.

She’d been very adamant to tell him that they were not under any circumstances to feed the ducks bread, she’d confiscated the tin of sweetcorn he was going to use for their dinner last night much to his inherent annoyance, but he allowed it nonetheless. In the end it was her that was grumbling given her distaste for peas.

He ignored his phone even after he got out of the shower, there was nobody to judge him but himself, and he still felt that checking it twenty minutes after he’d sent the message would be embarrassingly desperate.

For a start he wasn’t even sure what he liked about the man. Or maybe there were too many things to choose from.

But in the end he hit the same roadblock. This was Rosie’s teacher, and he’d been very insistent ever since that one fling in Uni, that he was one hundred per cent heterosexual. Maybe that was a lie to himself more than anything.

Shaking the thoughts out of his head he pulled on a dark green plaid shirt and pulling a jacket from the wardrobe, so he could easily grab it on the way out.

“Daddy!” A small voice came from down the hall and John sighed softly, a smile creeping onto his face at the sound of his daughter’s voice, and he quickly made his way to her room.

“Yes, love? What’s the matter?” He asked, pushing open her door, which, as she’d requested, had been painted a golden yellow.

“I got dressed myself today.” She told him excitedly, bouncing on the spot. She was wearing a pair of jeans, and a power-rangers t-shirt, and her wellington boots, also yellow.

He was never usually one to question his daughters fashion sense, he didn’t see the reason in telling her she had to wear what he wanted. But the wellingtons came as a bit of a surprise.

“Why’ve you got your wellies on? It hasn’t been raining sweetheart. C’mere so I can do your hair.” He asked, taking a seat on the floor by her play dressing table, and grabbing a hair tie off it. He’d been practising for ages to learn how to do braids, Rosie had been begging him to do them for her ever since she’d seen another girl at school with twin plaits down her shoulders.

He supposed that was one of the things that got to her most about not having a mum. She didn’t really mind overall, but it was the little things that John didn’t do for her without having to be told. He’d looked at books about being a single dad, but it was a load of tripe in his opinion.

Besides, his daughter was going to be kickass and awesome, braids or no braids.

“It might rain, you don’t know, did you ask the weatherman?” She replied, flopping herself down in his lap so he could brush the tangles her blonde curls. He didn’t doubt they’d inevitably turn brown, but everybody liked to fawn over it anyway.

“I didn’t, he wasn’t up yet. Well I suppose they’ll be useful, you can get that little bit closer to the ducks.” He gave a hum in amusement, as his fingers dragged through her hair, weaving the strands into what was a beautiful plait if he did say so himself.

She shot up like a light, nearly too quickly for him to tie the end of the braid and turned round excitedly. “The ducks! We have to go quickly daddy, or they’ll already have been fed!” She squealed, dashing from her room to find that tin of sweetcorn.

Rolling his eyes, John heaved himself up, grabbing his jacket and his phone from his bedroom, before being tugged out the door by an overexcited six-year-old.

They walked to the park hand in hand, as she babbled on about what she’d read about ducks in school, the sweetcorn now in a zip-lock bag in the pocket of her yellow raincoat. He didn’t really understand her fascination with them, ducks as far as he knew were vile creatures. Then again, she generally had a fixation on all things yellow, even if ducks weren’t, outside of story books.

Only when he was firmly sure Rosie was safe throwing small handfuls of corn to wandering ducks and was nowhere near enough to fall in the water of the nearby pond, did John check his phone.

**There’s a nice café close to Regents I like. Meet me there at 12? I’m there on business – SH**

**Don’t be alarmed, Rosie has been talking about the park visit you promised her all week – SH**

John rolled his eyes with a soft smile, glancing up to make sure Rosie wasn’t getting up to mischief, but she seemed too intent on taming a duck to be her friend, to find any.

**You don’t mind having her there? – JW**

**No, of course not. – SH**

**Alright, I’ll see you then. – JW**

Once the sweetcorn was gone, thrown about across the paths, being steadily consumed by ducks and whatever other birds came along, John grabbed Rosie’s hand to walk to the address Sherlock had texted him not long after.

“Where’re we going?” Rosie asked, considering they were walking further away from their flat, instead of going home.

“We’re going to meet somebody for lunch.”

“Who?”

“It’s a surprise darling.”

She squealed when she saw Sherlock standing outside the café, underneath the awning, and ran to hug him. He stumbled back a bit on impact, his hand finding her head, the hug a bit awkward. Considering Rosie’s head just about reached his stomach. “Mr Holmes! We’re here for lunch!” She told him, practically vibrating with excitement where she stood, John caught up to him behind her and offered the taller man a nod and a smile, which to his surprise was politely returned.

“How strange, I am as well. Would you care to join me?” He asked, his voice a lot gentler than it was when he was speaking to John.

“Can we daddy?” She asked, having forgotten that John had said they were supposed to be meeting somebody specifically.

“I don’t see why not.” John replied with a grin, and Sherlock winked at him. He rolled his eyes.

“So, you can braid hair?” Was the first thing Sherlock said after they got seated at a table, two coffees and an orange juice sat in front of them.

Rosie was first to reply before him. “Yep! He learned specially, isn’t it pretty?” John simply shrugged in response.

“Indeed.”

Food was quickly ordered, by a rather pleasant lady John learned was called Mrs Hudson, and Rosie easily distracted with a colouring sheet and some crayons, to pass the time while they waited.

“So, business?” John asked, remembering the text Sherlock had sent him.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Yes. Police work. Lestrade’s brought me in, because the police are out of their depth.” He was sitting fairly close to John, their legs side by side, and his arm was draped over the back of John’s chair. They were facing the window, and every time John looked at the teacher, he was studying the street outside.

“And what are you doing?”

“Hiding and watching.”

“Hiding?” John asked.

“Yes, with you, we look like a gay couple with a daughter, it’s quite easy for me to watch out the window and make conversation at the same time without raising suspicion.” He replied, his voice was low and melodic, baritone and frustratingly relaxing.

“So, we’re a disguise.” John spoke indignantly, offering a pointed scowl to the taller man, who grinned at him.

“You’re also good company, if that makes you feel any better.” Sherlock offered him a smirk, before looking back out the window

John licked his lips, unfurrowing his brow. “Slightly, I suppose. Why a gay couple specifically, why not just mates?”

“Because people who are _just mates_ certainly don’t sit this close together, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’re a prick.” John laughed.

“You came on your own volition. It also gives a better reason as to why two grown men would also be accompanied by a little girl. It never hurts to be specific, so long as you’re right.”

“Right.”

“I hope you didn’t feed them bread.”

The sentence came completely out of nowhere, and John breathed a laugh. “What?”

“The ducks. Rosie, what did you feed the ducks?”

“I got a tin of sweetcorn.” She replied, her tongue just poking out between her teeth as she concentrated on colouring in the lines.

“That’s good, the ducks can process that a lot easier.” Sherlock replied, and Rosie offered him a pleased smile.

“She made sure to let me know, the clever-clogs she is.”

Sherlock stiffed against him, his gaze fixed at a man loading boxes into a moving van. “It’s him, the suspect, he’s staring at me now. My cover, what do couples even do?”

John rolled his eyes, deciding to take the lead for once, placing a hand against Sherlock’s face, turning him by his jaw so their eyes met. “Well if he’s reading you I should say something about you seeming distracted.”

Sherlock smiled at him, and his stomach flipped at the genuine looking beam on his features. “I smile dotingly in response, then what?”

“Generally, at this point we kiss.” He muttered quietly, Rosie was still distracted, and he was so far lost in seafoam green, he didn’t even care who saw.

“Brilliant.” Sherlock replied, leaning in to kiss him.

His lips met John’s and sent flames through his face, it was gentle, and Sherlock made sure it was a kiss that would look familiar, rather than the first kiss it was. It couldn’t be awkward, or the suspect would get suspicious.

Sherlock’s hand found Johns arm, as the doctor cupped his face, fingers just weaving their way into his curls.

He pulled away, almost too abruptly for John, the suspect had now stopped staring and went back to work, deeming Sherlock’s presence unimportant. He allowed John to stare at him for a moment, eyes dilating in deep blue as he didn’t doubt his own were, that being their first kiss of hopefully many. John supposed it was rather clever, that idea, but he also supposed the taller man most likely had ulterior motives underneath. Not that he was opposed to those motives either.

Sherlock went rigid again, focused once more on the man, who was now stretching to reach something, his sleeve falling down to reveal a tattoo with an odd symbol. “That’s him, right, I have to go, Mrs Hudson knows you’re with me I’ll text her to put it on my tab. Next time, we’ll have a proper date, just us two, then maybe you can join the chase.” He smirked, and John’s brain melted, he was unsure of what was happening at this point or what was about to follow, but he was regretting bringing Rosie with him now he couldn’t take part in it.

“What-“

Sherlock cut him off. “Rosie, don’t forget your spellings.” He added quickly, ruffling her hair and poking out his tongue at her. “Afternoon.” This time he pressed a kiss to John’s temple before standing up, throwing his coat on as he ran out the door.

John watched in disbelief, as he chased that criminal around the corner, once he was out of sight, the doctor placed his head in his hands and sighed, a laugh ghosting in his throat.

“I finished my picture daddy!” Rosie declared.

John cursed himself for grinning.

Next time. That was enough for him.


End file.
